This is not what I wanted...
this place is not where I wanted
to be...
this city of desolation.
The land is parched...
The trees are bare -
they stand like burnt skeletons:
dead souless sentinels,
left as markers or
signs, signs of the times.
The sun no longer is seen;
each day brings only gray
flat, formless clouds above.
I cannot bear
this time, this place,
this reality.
Gone are most colors...
all that rmains are dark
shades of gray.
Some say the end is near.
They have more hope than I do.
I think this monotony,
days like this, these days,
will go on and on and on
forever.

She passed me at the market
as I sat there reading...
seemed innocent enough, 
she said nothing,
just smiled to let me know
she saw me.

She didn't want to talk.
We were never even friends.
Certainly never lovers.

So, what did she want?

She was inside my home,
I discovered,
just recently.
There were just a few signs,
but enough
to let me know
she was there.

I suppose she imagines 
I'm afraid.
Perhaps that's what she wants.

How many times
had she been nearby?
Watching? So close and unseen...
like a snake,
in the shadows,
outside my door
that I nearly step on?

What does she want?

Note: This poem was written originally with a different title at a time when I was brainwashed by religious ideas that made anything sexual to be shameful, secretive, or dirty. Hence, in the original version of this poem I used the word "lust" and used vampire imagery instead of describing healthy sexual activity. I also referred to the vampire as a virgin, further insinuating that healthy sexual activities are something other than good.

Sensuous and Strong as the Serpent

This vampire lived
a lustful life
nourished and satisfied 
by flesh on flesh - 
She with the strength of the serpent.

Tonight, she held
a young man, barely 20,
who is lost in her dark red eyes.
For a brief while,
he was convinced he had the upper hand.
Seeking to overpower her,
with his 6-foot muscular frame,
to her five and one half feet...

He thought she would be an easy
victim
to satisfy 
his desires and need for power.

With each motion he made,
she wrapped more of herself into him,
hands, arms, legs around him.
Till there was only the sound of blood
Beating louder,
pulsating
throbbing. 

As he struggles for air,
in this last dream of his life,
Somehow he finds a pleasure
in her pulsating blood-red eyes.

Her pointed teeth rested
against his pulsating artery.
There was just their rhythmic motions
as she consumed all of him
up to his last breath.

Not a drop of his blood was spilled,
she had not intended to kill,
in fact, she herself
was wounded in his attack.

His name is like
an incantation,
a magical spell,
so afraid I am
to even say it.
no, it is a curse
and something profone
all the same...

I  heard that name
today and heeard myself 
saying that name
and it felt like I'd committed 
some grave sin
and that I should seek the Sacrament
of "Penance and Reconciliation"
from the Church.

While not normally given 
to such magical thinking,
or beliefs in curses or incantations,
I did feel different today afterward,
and for a while
I couldn't get that face
out of my mind...
I felt anxious
expecting something bad
to happen...
nd the world felt different -
a bit more unfriendly
and frightening...
and I felt alone and vulnerable.

But since I shared this poem,
I felt a little better
a little more relaxed. 

The scene is
like a dream - surreal -
It's as if we watching this happen
on a screan or
like one might watch a play
or some bizarre parade
celebrating death...
but everything is in slow motion.

The vampire approaches her victim.
No one weems to notice what is happening
but I know it's real,
despite the lack of 
street signs, 
grass blades, trees, leaves
or others - just skeletal remains 
of trees that might come alive later.

Confronting her I say,
"I will not allow this."

She addresses me, saying,
"I can end your fears;
show you life
everlasting
and powers
you've always
hungered for.

I answer, "You are death
and I NEVER wanted power
over others....
life, compassion, empathy, goodness 
and love
are what I wanted."

"Drink my blood and become like me"

You only offer me death."

"No," she answers, "would you rather,
die than become?"
"if the priest says "Drink this blood'
You drink."

I wanswer, "the bread I eat is protection.
The blood I drink is life..." 
confused and uncertain about everything.

"I will have you willing nor not," she answers.

"And yet I live," I answer,
though still afraid.

"Only for now!
only for a while."

I felt like I was
describing some immortal being
that could not be
killed...
but the truth was
I didn't have the stomach for it...
or the courage....

Though I dreamed
of some modern day
Van Helsing or vampire slayer -
driving a wooden stake
through his heart,
maybe a relative,
lover, or friend
of one of his victims...
actually, to be honest,
more often than not,
in my dream
a sniper's bullet
would be all that 
was needed -
decapitation would work fine!
Just one bullet 
would be all that
was needed. 

I thought at one time,
I could be part of those
who would stop him...
We'd come as one big group
and find him,
in the daylight
and expose him -
and ultimately detsroy
the demon.

But that never happened.

I often wondered
how other victims
cope today,
I suppose they also
have the occasional nightmares.

I dare not even contact them,
afraid it would just
bring back memories...
It's better to just
hope, dream, imagine, visualize...

those things that represent their well-being
and my own.

I was glad to find out
she was a vampire -
I only found this out much later -
the small woman
who got on the bus with me.

She seemed so small and thin -
no shoes - that was strange -
and vulnerable.

Had she not been so powerful
she would have been the victim...
and I did nothing,
at first,
though I could feel it in my gut
that something
was going to happen to her
when those three guys
got off the bus and began
following her.
And it was dark.

But I was no hero...
what could I do?
I had to get off the bus
and so I got off at the next stop,
and began walking back
in the direction of the last stop.

It was too dark.
Then I saw her up ahead
walking alone.

I wanted to ask her
what happened
but when she turned my way
there below the street light
I was certain I saw blood
around her mouth
and her eyes flashed
as if they were glowing.

I suddenly turned and ran,
praying she wouldn't recognize me,
wouldn't come after me,
wouldn't know where I lived,
wouldn't think about me
or ever find me.

I suppose she knew
no one would believe me
even if I told what I thought
I saw.

"Of course she's a vampire"
my friend warned me.
"Haven't you noticed
how she has used you,
to feed her craving -
her addiction?"

Why didn't I notice,
way back when I first met her,
when she turned my way,
there was nothing behind her eyes
that had ever known love,
joy, sympathy, affection?

She must have had
the song fo the siren
in her voice
the magnetism of Medusa
in her gaze.

I felt like such
the fool for believing in
her lies and tricks
for so long.

"Isn't she even cold
to the touch?"
my friend asked.

I don't know how I got away,
broke free of the trance...
the trance that lingered 
after she left.

I was started to see her
picture (actually it was just her
eyes in the photo)
in the paper the other day.

I didn't think you could photograph
the undead.
and I felt sick to my stomach
and wondered if anyone noticed
that she (her eyes) were dead -
yet I could not find her
obituary.

I could sense it on her
just as well as she could
sense it...

I'm not talking about the smell
of smoke, though it was something 
like that.
Trace wasn't a smoker
like the others
in the house where she was staying
and you could smell that
on her.

Yet there was something more
that she was describing to me...
a sense of evil.

She was convinced
that the man staying
in that same house
was evil
and that somehow
she was contaminated -
dirty, sickening
and I could sense it too.

She was beautiful
and yet at the same moment
somehow I felt repelled
by something about her
or on her...

Though not given to supersition,
I wanted to tell her to bathe 
in garlic and holy water,
and to cross herself,
in the name of the Father,
The Son and the Holy Spirit.

I've been in the same room,
myself, with that man
and somehow I still feel
his shadow in my life,
as if he is sometimes
in the same room with me.

Having seen evil,
spent an hour or more
in the same room
with him -
or it - 
the hairs on the back
of my neck stood up...
I felt both a strong urge
to wipe his image
from my mind,
so as to go back to a life
of having never seen
or known
or been exposed
to Evil
and at the same time
I felt an obligation
to destroy him
as if that was my duty
to protect
all whom he
might otherwise come to harm...

Isn't that what I owed
one of his victims?
I could still hear her words
and probably always would,
"Are you just going to let him
get away with it?"
His words echoed through time.
He said, she had disrespected him
and for that she knew she would have
to escape
in the daylight.
 

So she boarded a train
the next day,
for a state 
up north,
from where she had come.

Now I know,
many years later,
that he cannot be destroyed
and I just want to forget him,
forget his name,
act as if I never met him...
no, act as if I never knew
he existed.

The Voice of the hypnotist saying,
"And my voice will go with you."

When I was a hypnotherapist
I'd say those words,
guiding someone into facing something
frightening, because
that's what I wanted
back when I was scared...
and fear was something I knew,
like every other kid,
shaped by our surroundings
or the stories we heard...

Come with me,
let's go back to where I grew up...
on East Mountain Drive, Southington
a dead end road, surrounded
by woods and hills -
you are nearly living in the woods,
far from town.
You've just watched "Killer Grizzly,"
and you wonder about what appear
to be bear tracks in the woods...
or you think about "Day of the Animals"
and you think about snakes
on a regalar hike through the woods
and the neighborhood dogs...
and every time you close your eyes,
you see snakes everywhere
or again, you're being chased by
the neighbor's dog.

Then before you know it,
your pre-teen mind thinks about killers
in the news...
the police show up on your street,
this is new -
police cars out here.
looking for a murder suspect,
who was heading this way.

"Were you in the words?"

"Of course."
 

The same question
asked by your mother.

Does this change you?
No, not at all.

What about the movie,
"Helter Skelter"
about the Manson family,
doing creepy crawly
through homes.
and the house -
is so big,
two stories plus a basement -
how lucky we were,
yeah right?
Without love or compassion
or safety.

What do you do?
Check under the bed?
No, that's silly, or is it?
So you do it...
and what if...
what if,
someone really is in the house...
what if...
you've become obsessed with that notion.
and you wake your sister
and before you know it,
you've come to the conclusion
that you'll have to go downstairs.
and check the house,
look around...

You approach the bottom of the stairs,
frozen, feeling that chill creeping up your back...
someone could be around the corner
in the dark room to the right...
somehow, you've made it inot the hall
avoided the room on the right,
turning on all the lights - first - going
from room to room.

You wake up...
your walking in the woods
beyind your house.
Every neighborhood has a haunted house.
Right?

I was the only one
who truly wanted to see
something...
anything.
something more than the eagle
whose sudden flight
startled us as we entered the woods...
 

The choice of lighting
in the "haunted house"
was enough to suspend disbelief
for me.

I wanted something to fear
besides the rattlesnake that I
almost stepped on...
the dog that actually bit me.
 

Something more satisfying
than what H. P. Lovecraft presented...
the lurking fear...

If you just looked upon it,
your terror would change you.

Looked at what?

There are so many real stories
I've heard since then.

There are experiences
we would wish never happened...
memories re-experienced
again and again,
without warning,
like a knock on the door
that you wished you had ignored....
a call that you wish you missed...
a place so dark
it never leaves you....
infinity that cannot be endured -
or so it seems...
you know this will be
a part of you, forever,
Always showing up uninvited.

PS: What we know
is not always true.

Mother
Your greatest gift to me
was the opportunity
to escape
because of your
constant indifference
to me...
until you cast me
aside.
I can only imagine
the life I knew
when I slithered
out of your womb
into a cold room.
Surely,
at that very first look
into your eyes
I saw nothing - 
a great abyss
a stark emptiness...
one who had never known
love, joy, sympathy
or affection.

Yet I was seduced
and drawn to seek
someting instinctual that must
have existed within
everyone.
What was it
that kept me looking
for something
anything to appear
behind those eyes?

One day I let down my guard.
I let my hand rest within striking distance.
I recoiled at your touch,
faster than the mere thought
could occur,
I pulled my hand away
from your cold flesh
and your eyes,
you face -
was that of the rattlesnake's.

I still visit the Serpentarium
I still stare
and stare at this snake...
as if enchanted,
or perhaps I stare and stare
knowing you cannot touch me
from behind the glass
enclosure...
your tongue flickers
as it seeks me out
tasting the space between us.

There is something desirable
about this feeling
something vicarious...
 

I don't need a photo
to know what I should avoid.
It's always been you.
I'm finally through.

I always needed a place to hide
growing up...
and that little boy
is still a part of me.

I used to hide in the woods
near home
from that witch
that was my mother.

I knew how killable I was
as an infant
and that that somehow
the witch had killed my mother
when she was holding me -
better than to believe
my mother was that witch.

It makes no sense
but I was just an infant
and I was afraid that I was
not a person,
that I was just a part
of my mother
and that this meant
that the witch would eat me too.

Some time passed
and I came to know
that the witch was my mother.

Oh, through these years,
I've come to realize
that my fears and the dangers
I faced
were not 
mine alone.

Don't ask me why these things
happen...
why a mother can't love
why a child
becomes and adult
struggling for a reason 
to understand this
seeking those who tell them
their existence 
is important and valuable. 

Later in life,
as an adult
I just wanted to be that
nurturing or protective
surrogate
to help people 
do more than exist
but to live...

If only you will
invite me into your life.

I also won't lie to you
I won't deny
just how desperately
I could use a hug
or some other form of touch -
any human physical contact.

You look but
do not see
the father of lies
speaks and his followers
come like disciples
drawn to his church -
his temple -
by the millions they come
shouting with exuberant
joy, "It's a miracle."
the great dragon of
perdition fulfills a prophesy
by the abomination of
desolation, declaring himself
god. For whom else but god
can be without sin?

 

The great dragon sits
upon his thrown
upon a great city
in a great land
that swallowed history
centuries ago...
a city on a hill
and the world looks.
He declares his enemies
and they shall be sacrificed
like lambs upon an altar.
Hear them weep!
Hundreds of millions
cry out:
"How long? How long?"
The world awaits its hero
who will come upon the clouds
and slay the dragon of
Babylon!

Notes on the poem: The so-called Christians could see the abomination of desolation that is represented by the current president elect. The belief that we can stop him or stop it, makes it no less evil. The fact that this was part of a US election does not make a candidate any less evil. The monstrosity of evil can exist as such regardless of whether people recognized the evil or whether people are evil in their hearts. 

In fact, the ability of something evil to appear to be something other than evil demonstrates the power of the forces of evil.  People are forced to cry out "how long" must their suffering endure - the suffering the voted for and now deserve. 

To whom it may concern,

as you might have noticed,
reading my poems,
and other writing
I've revealed
a great deal
about myself
and
would have hoped
that I'd be better -
known
understood
by those I've met.
 

Do not be surprised
as if you didn't
see it coming -
my final act.

In this, my poem,
and other poems,
I've shared an
understanding
of Sylvia Plath
or Anne Sexton
wanting to die
and her aweful
rowing toward god.

Even within my own family
there are those that came
before me.

My auntie Rosie
ended her existence
abruptly
with a shotgun in her mouth.

My first cousin
hanged herself.

Some people believe
that the dead visit
the living
in dreams
or in some altered
sense of consciousness.

My dreaming mind
has encountered
both of them,
as if all was fine,
as if death -
their deaths
were not real
or true...
I shape new narratives
out of memories.

Perhaps
in this final act,
I'll find that I accomplished
something
for which others
will remember
me. 

BACKGROUND INFORMATION ABOUT THE FOLLOWING POEM:

Background note on poem: "Courtland Smith died after being shot by an Archdale police officer. Smith had called 911 threatening suicide, and adding that he had a gun and had been drinking." For a full story read here:

The following poem is inspired by the Angel of Death series of poems by Jean Jones, who was The Horror Zine's November Selected Poet 1. Read more of the Angel of Death poems by Jean Jones here:

THE ANGEL OF DEATH OFFERS CONSOLATION

The Angel of Death approached Courtland
as he stood holding a drink
alone, crying, hoping no one would see him.

"Let's go for a ride."

"Who are you?"

"Someone who loves you,
who understands you
and what you are going through."

"I can't see your face."

"That's okay; I can see you."

So, they got in his car
and began a long talk
as Courtland drove through
the dark streets.
Observers would have said he was alone
in the car, but Courtland would have
told them differently...
he would have told of a beautiful woman
riding with him.

"They don't understand you
and won't take you seriously...
Go ahead...
Call 911 and tell them what you are going to do!"

"I can't do it."

"Go ahead, call them, you'll see.
They don't understand you like I do...
No one ever will..."

So, he did call 911.

The Angel of Death kept speaking to him
as he drove,

as he became more desperate.

"There's only one way you can be
with me forever," the Angel of Death told Courtland.

"I can't do it," he answered.

"They're not going to take you seriously
just because you cry.
Make them understand the depth of your pain...
Tell them you have a gun with you
and you're ready to end your life now.
Then they'll listen."

So, he told the 911 operator
just what the Angel of Death had said.

The next several moments
he spent listening to the 911 operator
in one ear
and the Angel of Death in the other,
until all he could hear
was the soothing hypnotic voice
of the Angel of Death.

When he came to a traffic light
he didn't hear the police telling him
to stay in the car.

"Do you really want to be with me,
forever?" the Angel of Death asked him.
"Then take this and go.
Go ahead. You can do it.
They'll remember you now!"

The next sounds to be heard
were from the police.
Four gunshots.
"Shots fired."
"Man down."

Recoil: verb: to draw back; start or shrink back, as in alarm, horror, or disgust.

Fear itself was nurtured in the womb.

I was born with it...
It was a joke
to hear it told.
"You were always so scared,
you got scared of the fire truck
we gave you. And you said,
Go- go."
my mother relates.

I never could bond
with Mom or Dad
It seemed...

Afraid of the need
for contact...
to be touched was both
a desire and
taboo.

In the pool,
you threw me,
you tried to teach me
to swim, Mom,
but when I got scared
I wrapped my arms around
the older girl who
was teaching me at the YMCA.
I felt shame
how strange for a 5 year old boy...
I wanted to be held by the her,
the instructor.
Yet, I feared my desire
was it pleasure I had felt?
If so, why was it bad?

Perhaps Freud was onto something
with his talk of taboos.
I always had a strange phobia of
snakes – strange because I both
feared them and was fascinated by snakes.
I loved to see them in the zoo,
and later at
the Serpentarium in Wilmington, NC.
How bizarre a phobia
attraction and repulsion...

Of course, the dreams explain it all.
Dreams of being served snakes
cut up into pieces after being cooked
it's unmistakable how much they resemble
a penis!
And just seeing them being served
In the dream...
I woke up nauseous.

I remember your touch
mother, when I recoiled
as if I had touched a snake.
your face that night in my dream looked
like a rattlesnake.
It's unmistakable...
those snakes seem to be
menacing, almost
human,
yet demonic.

 

My reaction...
I don't know why it happened.
Your reaction was full of rage
and however justified
it only precipitated
the nightmare.
The look of shock
on your face,
and the expression of anger,
as if I intended to harm you.
It was a reflex,
born out of a primal fear.

Perhaps Freud was onto something.
I always wanted
the love of a mother
yet I was born with fear.

Introduction: This is not a celebration or glorification of suicide – there is help if you feel these feelings. I care and will demonstrate this to anyone who seeks comfort. The original version of this poem was asked to be edited for "The Horror Zine" to prevent it from seeming like giving a green light to suicide. The revision was insincere. This is the original version.

Possessed

I asked my friend Jean
if I could speak to the Angel of Death.
I wanted to be left alone.

I walk about my days
as if inside a dream -
a dream within a dream.

Yesterday is now.
And I am back from the dead,
with the stench of death
Upon me.

I tried to make it end
back in December
took some pills
after the alcohol.

Three days later,
I was planning it again,
when I got out...

When a girl came out
and asked, "you can't sleep either?"

"You mean I am not alone?"
I wondered.

I kept trying to figure out if
this entire experience was "real?"
Is this really happening?

"Are you seeing or hearing things?"
asked the nurse.
"I wish" I said or "should I be?"

They laughed.

"That's the thing, nurse,
an entire normal population
is going about their lives
celebrating an idea,
a belief....
they think a man was born to a woman
without her having had sex."
A miracle they say -
the Christmas miracle.

And here I was in a psych hospital,
Isn't insanity the norm?

But ask me about why I tried suicide.
That's where things get strange.

It's like being possessed.
Most times the suicides do not speak.

Anne Sexton said,
"But suicides have a special language,
like carpenters, they ask which tools.
They never ask why build?"

If you ask, no, I didn't hear a voice.
nothing visionary
no hallucinatory sights or sounds.

Sometimes my world seems dead.
Dark. Cold.
Nothingness
echoes
and taunts me.

That's when death
speaks.

 

Disclaimer: I am not a person who believes in anything supernatural though the ideas do work in a figurative or metaphorical way. We all want to understand why there is evil. I chose to personify ideas like "Death," "suicides," or "The Angel of Death" as pure evil completely distilled of anything good as opposed to the good, found in people which encourages and celebrates life and joins us together, connecting us as humans. 

Love, sexual excitement, connection, sexuality, sensuality and eroticism are good.

If you are feeling this darkness, this despair, this isolation and a sense that there is no warmth, compassion, or goodness in the world, I get it and would say that you are listening to the wrong people. Some people just are not as instinctually compassionate, caring or empathetic as others. Some people are narcissistic and lack the capacity to empathize.

I was told by a friend who helped me to "pay it forward." I now work as a caseworker on a Mobile Crisis Unit, and I assist those who have undergone some crisis. A crisis is whatever you feel is a crisis. If you call our crisis line someone will come out and see you. I might be asked to follow-up with you, if you are residing in the area that I serve.

I mentioned the ideas of Anne Sexton from her poem "Wanting to Die." In that poem she writes "But suicides have a special language..." Well, I now understand that language and can speak it. This poem was inspired by a time when I had a suicidal urge. However, I may have spoken their language already. I will be able to understand and there are others that understand you.

This is a serious matter, and I would not dare to state that I have nothing to worry about any longer. That's why those who do have compassion, love, and empathy need to act and take the matter seriously. We need you to take it seriously when you know someone who is suffering. I certainly hope that neither I nor anyone else feels possessed by this force of destruction.

It was always you,
from the beginning –
my beginning.

You were the serpent
Tempting me
until I was cursed

back in some ancient
story about a utopian
garden – Eden, it was called.

When my progenitor
gave birth you (or she)
slithered from the womb

Like an umbilical cord
choking me...
pulling me back,
back... yet repulsed
by you (her).

And I knew fear -
fear of losing something
of myself
fear of my desires.

But I'm free now.
I've stopped running.
I don't fear the dirt
beneath my feet -
it has no calling.

I'm free now.

I awaken to the alarm
but quickly fell back asleep...
in the dream I'm traveling home -
wherever that was -
and something happens...
I'm alone, stranded somewhere -
alone and scared.

The sound of knocking -
just a bad dream.

My cheeks are still burning.
Is it the fever?
Is this an illusion?
A dream?

This is that reality - that experience -
when dreams and reality overlap,
commingle and confuse.
How do I know this
while dreaming?

There follows a sense of danger...
someone is in this dark house.
I feel a shiver
as I look and see something...
someone in the doorway of my room.
I must wake up, clear my mind,
be certain that it is just part of a dream.

The bedroom door then
seems to fade away -
farther and farther away.
"Get up!"
Did I say that?

Someone is coming at me...
the alarm - far away.

Finally the scene snaps back
toward clarity...
the room is empty - quiet -
clearly no one is there...
no one is in the room.
The scene is now clear.

Still as if uncertain, as if
I had to find out for sure,
confirm that there is no danger,
that all is really safe,
I'm drawn back into that dream...
because it seems so real.

I thought for sure I had awakened,
just moments ago,
but it was just another illusion.

Monday night, up late,
And I cannot quite find
the poem in me.
It was just there. ;
somewhere around some corner,
in my mind,
haunting me.

I must call forth this apparition,
It is an exorcism I seek.

Will you stay?
Will you believe in me,
and my ghosts?

I don't -
not literally - but
the more I search,
the less I'm free,
the ghost is me.

I had the dream again.
Many years ago...
actually it
happened more than once -
the dream and the events that I relive
in the dream.

I've walked down lonely
frightening streets
in the dark,
sometimes lost
sometimes just knowing
I had a long way to go.
Telling myself all would be well...

Telling myself
that I wasn't alone
that there are people out there
that care about me
and will rescue me
before anything bad really happens,
though another part of me
feels the loneliness
a bit more oppressively
in moments like this,
when I realize
no one even knows
where I am,
much less cares,
when I'll be home.

My mind flashes back
to a time when this happened -
not sure how many years back.
I missed the last bus
and decided to walk...
thought I'd take a shortcut
but just got lost...
It got dark and very cold.
The winter streets were slick.

It's interesting what crosses your mind
in times like this...
thoughts about how close
they come to me,
the cars that come around each corner
their lights in my face...

and I think about how slippery
the street is
and how close the cars
seem to get to me
before they even notice I'm there
walking alone on this night.
Something I should not be doing,
should I?

I tell myself with each car approaching
that it will safely avoid me,
just like the car before me did...
and that the lightening
will wait
will wait until I get home safely...
and the dogs I hear
will stay away,
not even noticing me...

These are things I tell myself
over and over
at times like this,
trying to find comfort
in anything at all.
 

I've had this dream
more than once,
reliving real events
and I know it's a dream
this time
and I just wait
and hope
that the dawn
comes in time.

I'd like to think
I'm just like
anyone else -
that we all have limits...
There's only so much
we can take...
So much -
Pain... Fear... Loss... Trauma.
There's only so much
any of us can experience
and remain sane
and remain true to
our ideals, our values,
WHO WE ARE
and
the person we have become.

When the pain,
the fear, the terror,
the trauma
exceeds this limit,
We snap
and for a while
we drift away...
away to someplace
in our mind,
someplace utterly unknown,
unexpected,
outside reality...
maybe we come back
and then again
maybe we don't...
It depends on what
might call us back.

Reflection: The above poem is inspired by the "confessional" poetry of Anne Sexton and Sylvia Plath who wrote about their inner experiences, their psyche. They both took their lives. Anne Sexton wrote, "To Bedlam and Part Way Back" which was her collection inspired by mental illness and psychiatric hospitalization. I guess she never made it all the way back since she took her life. I made it back.